


Visitation

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky drops in on Hutch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visitation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 H/C Bingo. Prompt was "wings (sudden onset)."

The day Starsky woke up with wings was definitely one of the weirder mornings of his life.

And he wasn't even sure it _was_ morning. He wasn't even sure he'd woken up. He wasn't sure of a damn thing, really, except that two big, white, feathery appendages had somehow sprouted from his shoulder blades while he was – asleep? Unconscious? Dead?

Dead. Uh-oh.

 _The parking garage. A crunch of metal on metal. Shots. Asphalt under his cheek. A panicked voice shouting his name – Hutch's voice. Hutch…._

Oh, God. Where was Hutch?

Terrified, he lurched to his feet, and almost fell. There was nothing solid underneath him, just some white, fluffy stuff that seemed as insubstantial as clouds. But before he could take the inevitable plunge, the wings fluttered behind him, creating a pleasant breeze, and bearing him up until he was hovering, hovering in the air like a bee over a flower.

Starsky swallowed, and closed his eyes. _He_ hadn't done that, not consciously. The wings had moved like an automatic reflex, the same way your hand jerks back when you touch something hot.

Okay. So he had wings, and they could be useful. Swell. Now where was Hutch? For that matter, where was _he_?

He took a good look around. The white, fluffy stuff _was_ clouds. They were all around him, dotting a clear, blue expanse of – sky, he supposed. Where else would clouds be? That didn't explain anything else, but he was beginning to get a glimmer of understanding just the same.

He'd never paid a lot of attention at services, really. He hadn't even gone to synagogue more than a handful of times since his mom had shipped him off to California. He'd been bar mitzvahed just before that, but Al and Rosie were lax about his religious education, and he'd found other things to do with his Friday evenings and Saturday mornings. But everybody knew about angels, right? Jacob wrestled with one, Adam and Eve couldn't get back into the garden because it was guarded by one, Sarah laughed at one when he (it?) said she'd get pregnant at ninety.

Hutch looked like one.

Which brought him right back to the overriding issue here. Where the hell (or whatever) was Hutch?

He'd have to look for him. He had no idea how to do that in his present circumstances, but not looking for Hutch, not making sure Hutch was okay, was inconceivable to him.

To his delighted surprise, it wasn't a problem. He fluttered the wings experimentally (it was kind of cool; you just wiggled your shoulders, did a little upper-body shimmy, not much different from some of the moves he'd executed a hundred times on the dance floor), and after a few warm-ups, just to get the rhythm down, the suckers were beating strong and steady. It didn't matter that he didn't know where to go; apparently all you had to do was think about it. He thought, " _I gotta find Hutch, I gotta get to Hutch_ ," and the wings started going, and – then he was there. Almost instantly. It was a lot like the transporter on "Star Trek," only nobody had to beam you anywhere; you did it yourself.

It was night, and he was in Hutch's bedroom. Or over it – it didn't seem to have a ceiling. Starsky stared hard for a moment before he realized that he was seeing _through_ the ceiling. He was sitting on the roof at Venice Place, looking down, and it was as though the beams and shingles had dissolved before his eyes. He could see the pictures on the walls, Hutch's guitar propped in a corner, Hutch's black leather jacket thrown carelessly over a chair.

He'd always liked that black leather jacket, but now he barely noticed it because his attention was distracted by a sudden ripping noise. He looked toward the bureau. Hutch was standing there, holding something – Starsky couldn't see what; it looked like a piece of cloth – in one hand and his long-bladed hunting knife in the other. As Starsky watched, Hutch thrust the blade again into whatever it was and sliced the thing from end to end. Chunks of yellow foam rubber spilled out onto the carpet.

Starsky blinked. It was Ollie.

Hutch hurled the disemboweled teddy bear across the room and sank down on his bed. He still held the knife. After taking an immoderate swallow from the whiskey bottle on the nightstand, he lay back against the pillows and drew his thumb slowly, meditatively, along the blade's edge. A thin red line, bright in the lamp light, welled from the thumb, but Hutch's expression didn't change. On his face was written a depth of anguish which rendered mere physical discomfort irrelevant.

Starsky stared at him. The bursting relief he'd felt at the first sight of a live and apparently undamaged Hutch was being rapidly replaced by horror. Hutch needed help. Hutch needed _him_. And what was he doing? Sitting on a rooftop watching while his partner got drunk and played with sharp objects.

He racked his brain for the proper approach. _Can't just plop down in front of him and say, "Hiya buddy, how's tricks?" I'd give him a heart attack. He thinks I'm dead. I_ am _dead. Jeez, this is weird. Maybe I could appear to him in a dream or a vision or something. Except how the hell do I do that? Couldn't somebody have given me a handbook or something? What kinda half-assed operation are they runnin' up there? No instructions, no orientation, no basic training…._

His ponderings were interrupted by a harsh choking sound. He looked down. Hutch was crying. He'd dropped the knife on the floor and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. His broad shoulders shook with sobs.

Starsky felt his own throat close up, his eyes brim. He'd always been a sucker for Hutch's tears.

He thought, " _I gotta touch him_ ," and, in a blink, he was seated on the bed next to his partner. He'd probably scare the hell out of Hutch, but better that than let him cry alone. Better that than watch him pick up that knife again.

He reached out and laid a hand lightly on Hutch's shoulder. "Hutch," he whispered.

Hutch gave a violent twitch, and rolled over. He peered at Starsky from swollen red eyes.

Starsky felt suddenly, bizarrely shy. He managed a sheepish smile. "Hey, buddy."

Hutch stared at him, jaw slack. He was drunk, Starsky could tell. He probably thought he was hallucinating. He probably didn't believe his eyes. _Well, I wouldn't either_.

After a long, silent moment, Hutch spoke, in a voice raw with pain. "Where the fuck have you been?"

That wasn't quite the reaction Starsky had braced himself for. "Uh – "

"It's been three months! Three months since you – since – " his voice cracked suddenly " – I've been waiting three f-fucking months to see you – "

"Aw, babe – "

Hutch's voice dropped to a strangled whisper. "I thought you weren't coming. I thought I'd never see – " He broke off with a cry and flung himself into Starsky's arms.

Starsky hugged him tighter than he'd ever hugged anyone in his life. Or his death.

"Babe -- " he said, and choked. He cleared his throat impatiently and tried again. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry. I don't know where I was or what happened. I just kinda woke up all of a sudden and I knew I had to come and find you."

Hutch breathed raggedly against his neck for a moment before raising his head and looking into Starsky's eyes. "I love you."

Starsky swallowed painfully. "Yeah," he said, voice rasping like sandpaper. "Me, too." He pressed his forehead to Hutch's and squeezed his eyes shut, casting about for a way to change the subject before they both dissolved into big, messy puddles.

He smiled and pulled back a little as the obvious answer presented itself. "Hey, look what I got. On my back. C'mon, look!" Hutch hadn't even commented on the wings yet, and Starsky was kind of proud of them.

Hutch was still gazing raptly at his face, still hanging on to him as though Starsky were standing at the edge of a cliff, poised to tumble off if he let go. Starsky twisted gently in his partner's stranglehold and pointed with his chin back over his shoulder. "See? Pretty nifty, huh?"

Hutch cast a quick, distracted glance behind Starsky. "I don't see anything." He moved his hands to Starsky's cheeks, cupping his face. "Oh, babe," he whispered. "Are you really here?"

"Whaddaya mean, you don't see anything?" Starsky flapped the wings. "What about that?"

Hutch gave him a bewildered smile, leaned closer and kissed Starsky's lips.

Starsky readily returned the gesture. Beneath the sharp bitterness of the liquor, Hutch tasted like he always had, sweet and warm and good.

When he drew back, he hugged Starsky close again, running his hands over Starsky's back. "I can't believe it," he said softly. "I know we said we'd never let ourselves be separated, but I thought – I was afraid I'd ruined it. I thought when I couldn't save you – Starsk, I tried. I tried so hard, I held you so tight. I tried to catch the blood in my hands." His voice shook violently again. "But they came and took you away, they d-dragged me away from you…."

"Shhh. S'okay, s'okay, buddy, I'm here, I'm here." Starsky sighed. Hutch couldn't see the wings, or feel them. Damn. He'd wanted to show them off.

Hutch's breath stirred the hair above Starsky's ear. "You feel so good, so solid." He sighed a long sigh. "I was worried you wouldn't be solid, that I wouldn't be able to feel you."

"Dummy." Starsky grinned. "Why wouldn't I be solid?"

"I didn't know what to expect, Starsk." Hutch wiped his wet cheeks. "A vapor? A mass of ectoplasm? Hell, I'm no expert on ghosts."

Starsky blinked. "Ghost? I'm an angel, Hutch, complete with wings." He shrugged self-consciously. "I guess you can't see 'em, but – "

"Angel? Wings?" Hutch stared at him.

"What, you can believe in ghosts but not angels with invisible wings?"

"I – I just…." Hutch shrugged. "I wasn't expecting it, I guess. Where's your halo? Or is that invisible, too?" He laughed, a squeaky, rusty little laugh, a laugh that sounded like it hadn't been used in many a day.

Starsky's heart swelled to bursting at the sound of that laugh. He grinned and passed a hand over his head, through empty air. "Nothin'. I tell ya, somebody up there's asleep at the switch."

The humor faded slowly from Hutch's face. "Do you have to go back to – wherever?"

"I don't know," Starsky said slowly. He hadn't even thought about that. He hadn't thought about anything but Hutch.

He saw Hutch swallow. "Do you want to?"

 _Dumb blond_. "Whatta you think, blintz? Think I came down here for my health? Think I came down here 'cause I was bored? I'm stayin' till you throw me out." _If I can_. He crossed his fingers behind his back.

Hutch touched his face. "That won't happen. Ever." He gazed at Starsky with such open adoration that Starsky felt his own eyes begin to fill again.

"Hutch," he said softly, "I saw what you did to Ollie."

Hutch blinked, and then looked away, his hand dropping from Starsky's face.

"And I saw you playing with the knife." Starsky had to struggle to get the words out. "Were you – were you going to – "

"I don't know." Hutch's voice was flat. "I wasn't thinking, I wasn't planning. I just wanted to get drunk and forget about everything. Forget about you. Ollie was…I just couldn't stand to see it anymore. Every time I looked at it, I remembered that I didn't – I couldn't take care of you. That damn bear just sat there and stared at me. So I killed it." He laughed, a little maniacally, Starsky thought with an inner shiver. "I don't know if I would've – hurt myself. Maybe I would've gotten too wasted to do anything but pass out."

"But – you've thought about it?"

Hutch was silent for a long moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "Not at first, not when I thought you'd come back. I thought you couldn't leave me for good, you wouldn't. I hung on to that. But I waited and waited, and you didn't come, and…." He shrugged a little, as if in apology.

"Babe," Starsky said, and took both Hutch's hands in his. "You gotta be careful. You can't hurt yourself, please. I couldn't stand it if you – "

"Shh." Hutch laid a finger across Starsky's lips. "I won't. I don't have any reason to, now." His mouth quirked in a crooked smile. "Maybe you saved my life. Ironic, huh?"

 _Maybe that's the reason_ , Starsky thought suddenly. _Maybe that explains it_.

"Hutch," he said, "I bet I'm not just any ordinary, average angel. I bet I'm your _guardian_ angel."

Hutch laughed shortly. "Too bad I wasn't yours."

"No, listen," Starsky said, his mind racing ahead as the pieces fell into place. "I probably got sent here to look after you. That's probably my new job. I mean, angels gotta have jobs, too, don't they? They can't just flutter around and strum their damn harps all day for eternity, right? They've gotta have a purpose. Everybody needs a purpose, and you're mine."

"I am, huh?" Hutch smiled a little. "Sure you don't want a better one?"

"Stop talkin' like that," Starsky said sharply. "I hate it when you talk like that."

"Sorry."

"So I'm supposed to be here, keeping you safe. Maybe that's why it took me three months to get back. Maybe I didn't wake up, or whatever, until you really needed me."

"I needed you every minute," Hutch whispered. "Every minute of every day and night."

Starsky put out a hand and touched Hutch's face, letting his thumb trace the soft lips. Hutch closed his eyes and covered the hand with his own.

"It was James Gunther," he said after a moment. " _The_ James Gunther. He was behind the McClellan case, and he was behind your – your murder."

"Jesus," Starsky breathed. He was silent a moment, absorbing it. "James Gunther? You sure?"

"I'm sure. Once we started running it down, all the pieces fit together. Starsk, the whole thing makes Watergate look like a day at the beach. Gunther was as dirty as a garbage truck in a sewer."

"Was? You collared him?"

"I killed him. In cold blood."

The words fell flatly between them, seeming to echo like a pebble dropped down a well. Hutch's eyes held Starsky's in a level stare. They weren't guilty eyes. They were the eyes of a man who felt he'd righted a wrong, a man secure in the knowledge that he would enter his house justified.

"Don't tell me," Starsky said softly. "Don't tell me another fucking thing about it." What if he was supposed to report this to somebody? What if heaven had an IA division?

"I was careful," Hutch said. "Nobody knows. Nobody's gonna know."

Starsky looked down, turning Hutch's hand over in his and stroking the palm. He said nothing. What could you say when your partner told you he loved you so much he'd committed murder?

Hutch laughed suddenly. "I felt like an avenging angel," he said, and then the laughter died as quickly as it had come, and a faraway look took its place in Hutch's eyes.

"I started to think that was why you didn't come. I thought it was because I'd broken the rules, fucked up my karma, that I was being punished. That we'd be separated forever because of what I'd done." He was silent for a moment. "But I still wasn't sorry."

Starsky smoothed the hair back from Hutch's forehead. "You really believed I'd come back? You thought I'd haunt you?"

Hutch smiled. "Not haunt me. Just be with me. Just love me. I know it doesn't make any sense; I've never believed in ghosts, or angels, or even life after death. But I believe in me and thee, Starsk. That's the only fucking thing I believe in anymore. Nothing else is worth shit to me now."

Starsky swallowed. Damned if Hutch wasn't starting to scare him. Here he was, a reanimated corpse for chrissakes, and _Hutch_ was starting to scare _him_.

He cleared his throat. "Hey, are we gonna sit here all night? Don't you need to get some sleep? You gotta work tomorrow?"

"Yes, but I'd rather just keep looking at you."

Starsky grinned. "Go to sleep and you can dream about me."

Hutch squeezed his hand. "You're sleeping with me." It wasn't a question.

"Well, sure," Starsky said. He still didn't know if he might be snatched away at any moment, but he certainly wasn't about to leave on his own. He didn't want to just be with his partner when Hutch was in danger. That wasn't nearly enough. If he could have crawled inside Hutch's skin with him, he would have. What the hell good was eternal life if you couldn't spend it with the person you loved more than anything?

Hutch crawled under the covers. "Starsk, is it true that angels are sexless?" he asked.

Starsky, who was admiring the play of muscles on Hutch's bare chest as he stretched out, blinked at the question. Terrific. Something else nobody had bothered to fill him in on, and it was a pretty damn important something. "No way," he said after a moment, and paused. "I mean, I still got everything, don't I?" He looked down at himself. He was wearing his usual jacket, t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. The crotch of the jeans bulged with evidence of his lack of sexlessness.

"I guess that's just a myth," Hutch said, his eyes following Starsky's. "Thank God."

"Really," Starsky said, letting out a relieved breath. He undressed quickly and slid into bed.

Hutch smiled, and reached for him. "I've never made it with a heavenly messenger before," he said in a husky whisper.

Starsky fended him off. "You ain't makin' it with one now, buddy," he said, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "It's two o'clock in the morning, and you said you gotta work tomorrow. And you're half sloshed, and you're gonna be hung over. You need your sleep, hotshot."

Hutch sighed, defeated. "You don't have to be quite so good at your job, you know. Can't you just stick to protecting me in life-threatening situations?"

"Hey, I don't do things halfway, partner. You just lay your pretty head down and count some sheep, and maybe tomorrow night I'll give you a glimpse of paradise. That's if you're good."

"I can see you're going to be hell to live with, if you'll pardon the expression." Hutch yawned, and turned the light off.

Darkness shrouded them, and Starsky thought, _It's real. We're together, just like always_. Tears pricked his eyes yet again, and yet again he blinked them back in irritation. He tried to remember if Warren Beatty had blubbered every few minutes in _Heaven Can Wait_. He didn't think so.

"Starsk." Hutch's voice had lost its bantering note.

"What?" Starsky whispered.

"Put your wing over me."

Starsky did. The white feathers shone in the dimness with an almost pearlescent glow.

"You can't feel it, can you?"

"Doesn't matter," Hutch said. Starsky saw his eyes close, his chest rise and fall as he sighed. "I know it's there."


End file.
